


Homebound

by Semira



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Dean, Big Brother Dean, Blood, Brotherly Love, Cage Trauma, Caring Castiel, Caring Dean Winchester, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed Winchesters, Episode: s11e09 O Brother Where Art Thou, Gen, Hell Trauma, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Nightmares, POV Sam Winchester, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Episode: s11e09 O Brother Where Art Thou, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 23:53:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5517782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semira/pseuds/Semira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean does it—as he does everything—with a bang. Later, Sam won't be able to remember quite how it went down (he thinks Rowena in chains was involved, remembers sigils and spellwork and maybe even the actual door of the temporary cage being blown off), but he does remember, with perfect clarity, the very first moment he heard Dean's voice, raw and desperate.</p>
<p>“Damn it, Sam, answer me if you can hear me!”</p>
<p>He remembers staring, semi-conscious and trembling, through the bars of the temporary cage, remembers leaning toward the voice.</p>
<p><b>In other words</b> <em>After what happened to his brother in 11x09, O Brother Where Art Thou, Dean will do anything to get Sam out and get him home. The rest they can figure out as they go. <b>Needless to say, <span class="u">please</span> don't read this if you don't want spoilers for the events of the episode.</b></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Homebound

Dean does it—as he does everything—with a bang. Later, Sam won't be able to remember quite how it went down (he thinks Rowena in chains was involved, remembers sigils and spellwork and maybe even the _actual door_ of the temporary cage being blown off), but he does remember, with perfect clarity, the very first moment he heard Dean's voice, raw and desperate.

“Damn it, Sam, answer me if you can hear me!”

He remembers staring, semi-conscious and trembling, through the bars of the temporary cage, remembers leaning toward the voice.

“Sam! Say something!” Then, lower, a hiss: “Cas, you sure it's here?” A pause, and Dean shouts his next words, panic mounting. “Sammy, you gotta say something.”

Doesn't Dean understand that he's _trying?_

That's the thing about being in hell bodily instead of just being a soul. See, as a soul, you can't scream yourself hoarse. By now, he's nearly voiceless. Time passes differently here. Sam doesn't know how long it's been topside, but here, Lucifer's had a bit of time to stretch his muscles, get back into old habits.

And in between every session, he kneels and _touches_ Sam's face, gentle like he didn't just ruin him, and says, like a reproachful parent, “This is all on you, Sam. You know how to make it stop.”

Even the devil needs down time, though. Sam's never sure if Lucifer gets bored of torturing him or if the brief moments of peace are just another calculated way to push Sam that little bit closer to _yes_.

Sam remembers the first time he _saw_ Dean, dimly-lit and pale as he rounded the corner into Sam's view, jaw stubbled and eyes sunken—remembers that his first word was Dean's name, even though he couldn't give it voice. 

He remembers (at some point) hands on him, lifting him.

It's possible that he fought. He can't remember. He realizes (in retrospect) that those hands were probably Dean's, not Lucifer's. 

He does remember Lucifer's voice, though: “Dean. It's good of you to drop by. You can borrow him for a while, but you know better than anyone how this is going to end.” 

Remembers the chill that swept through him at those words, the way Lucifer smiled, remembers the warm arms wrapping tighter around him.

Then his brother's voice, fire to the archangel's ice: “Do I? Because I'm pretty sure _I'm_ not the one about to be sent back to the Cage. Rowena? Do your shit. We're leaving, and we're taking _my_ brother with us.”

Sam remembers what might have been the moment he lost consciousness.

Cas's hands were on his forehead (flavor of Grace, too familiar, healing instead of breaking him, but he couldn't distinguish the difference at the time). He remembers hearing the sounds from his now-healed throat, animalistic cries low and broken between the litany of no he's spent the last several _days-weeks-months_ chanting at the devil himself.

Dean pulled him away from Cas, Sam knows, carried him out, but the last thing he remembers as he hyperventilates his way into unconsciousness is being lifted and dragged out of the smothering darkness and fire until he wakes on the other side.

 - oOo -

He takes his first breath of free air under a starry sky streaked with thin clouds.

Cold bites into his bones everywhere except for a single band of heat around his torso and against his back where it's snug up against Dean's chest. His legs sprawl out in front of him on grass that's stiff and crackling with frost. He pushes himself into the heat. Lucifer is cold and Limbo is neutral—room-temperature, not warm enough to register as anything. Nothing down there is warm like this.

He tries to burrow into the warmth and gets a gentle push for it along with a soft breath that would be a laugh if it tried a little harder. “Gonna knock me over, and then where would we be?”

Sam shivers and lifts heavy arms, turning himself onto his side so he can use at least one of them to wrap around the source of warmth. “On the ground,” he whispers.

A ragged laugh. “Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

He sighs. “Dean.”

“Don't wear it out.”

Sam's eyes close, and his next words ride out on a sigh. “Knew you'd come.”

Dean makes a noise, amused and agonized in equal measure, and Sam feels his body tense. “How long'd it take me?”

“...You tell me.”

Dean shakes his head. “I know how long it took on _my_ end. Sam. _How long?_ ”

Sam swallows. He's not sure if he should even tell Dean that he stopped counting after the first few days. It really hasn't been very long at all. Certainly not as long as the Cage or wherever Dean was. A few weeks, _maybe_ a month or two. He lost track. Time was the least of his priorities. “Doesn't matter. It's over.”

But Dean's absolutely intent on using whatever Sam says for self-flagellation. Sam won't let him. This isn't on Dean. He doesn't need to bear the pain of it. “Sam. I need to—”

Sam's gotten good at this, though. “Dean,” he says, and it comes out slurred because he's inches away from sleep. He forces his eyes open, craning his neck to stare up at Dean. “So tired.”

Dean exhales, breath fogging in the air. “I know, Sam. Cas zapped back to the Bunker. Gettin' stuff ready. You and me, we're gonna get in the car when you feel like you can. I'm just about done lifting your heavy ass. Sheer adrenaline got me through it, like those folks who lift cars.”

“Sayin' I'm fat?”

An open hand against the side of his head, barely a tap—apparently all the pressure Dean's willing to put into a playful slap right now.

“Not made of glass,” Sam says.

“Not speaking in full sentences, either, apparently. Come on, big guy. Let's get you up.”

They've managed two steps with one of Sam's arms slung around Dean's shoulder and one of Dean's tight around Sam's lower back when Sam's head clears, and he asks, “Cas...?”

Dean seems to get what he's asking, and speaks after an awkward pause. “Uh, yeah. I mean, it would be a hell of a lot faster to zap you back, but this is where the car is, and you... I don't think you liked him using his Grace on you earlier. Makes sense, too. I just... we're half an hour out, and you can sleep on the way home.”

_Home._ It's still weird to hear Dean say the word so lightly, but good weird.

Dean blasts the heater when they get in the car and takes off his own jacket to drape it around Sam's shoulders. The car smells like beer and fast food and the jacket smells like it's gone a few too many wears without washing, and Sam couldn't be more thankful. 

They roar out, home-bound, and Sam's body is begging for sleep, but he forces his eyes to stay open. “Dean,” he says.

“Hm?”

“I'm sorry.”

His brother actually flinches. “What would you even have to—”

“Not waiting. It was just... she said it like it was time-sensitive, and I swear, Dean, _swear_ I tried to call but you weren't—”

Dean shakes his head. “S'not on you Sam. That one's... I mean...”

Sam vaguely remember what Crowley said, and he wants to ask about Amara, but he holds his tongue. They'll have time for that later. 

A chill floods through Sam when he remembers what Lucifer told him, and he opens his mouth to try to force the words out, clamping his mouth and eyes closed at the almost physical pain the memories bring. Tears prick at his eyes.

So weak.

“Dean,” he says, louder than he meant to, but he's gotta say it now or he's not sure if he ever will. He sits up in his seat, vision washed with static as dizziness overtakes him. What the hell, anyway? Cas healed him. He breathes through his nose and waits for it to pass. The heat flooding through the vents only makes the cold sweat worse. He tastes bile. Sam swallows hard and grits the next words out, barely audible over the whoosh of air through the vents. “Dean, you were—Lucifer... he wants...said—” 

Dean's arm moves out like a safety bar to catch Sam before he pitches forward, and Sam sees him shake his head out of the corner of his eye. “Nope.”

“I have to—”

“Hold up, Sam. Not now. Had a hell of a day already; don't need to add the fuckin' devil to the mix.”

“It's important.”

“Not now it ain't. It'll be important in about fifteen hours, when you've slept and got some food in you, and... well, there are a few things I need to tell you myself, anyway. Been needing to for a while.” He looks down for a moment, then clears his throat. “But first, food and sleep.”

Dean's words register slowly. Huh.

He is hungry—ravenous. Like he hasn't eaten for weeks. He should add that to the list of topics he'd like to research: the effects of Hell-time on physical versus immaterial bodies. He'll do that when he can stand up straight.

Dean's arm is still across his chest, and Sam leans back, self-conscious. “I'm okay,” he whispers. 

“I know you are, Sammy, and we're gonna make sure you stay that way.”

He thinks he mutters his thanks before his eyes slip closed, but he's not sure.

Darkness closes around him and drags him deep into slumber.

The next thing he's aware of is the crack of his head against the window and—as sound fades in—the squeal of brakes, faint against the loud clatter of gravel crackling against the underside of the car, and then Dean's voice, louder than all of it. “Wake up!”

He tries to say that he _is_ , but he finds that his mouth is grossly flooded with saliva; he manages to gurgle a word before a little bit drips down over his chin, which—ew. He swallows, tasting copper.

His stomach almost rebels at the flavor, and as the haze of sleep lifts off all the way, pain makes itself known. Not saliva. His tongue—he must have bitten it.

It's still bleeding, and Sam fights against the swell of nausea, spitting blood into his palm and then reaching under Dean's coat to wipe it on his own shirt.

“Sam,” Dean says, cautious.

“Hey,” he manages.

Dean breathes out a long, heavy breath, like he's been holding it. “Nightmare,” he says. “You were just—I mean, _shit._ You okay?”

Sam swallows blood again, knowing he's going to regret it soon. “Yeah. Think so.” He can't even remember what he was dreaming about—only the faint echoes of Lucifer's voice. _You know how to end this._ Sam realizes only as he starts to calm that his heart is almost beating out of his chest, body charged with adrenaline all the way to his fingertips. He's breathing like he just ran a race—shallow and ragged, in and out. The panic lessens but doesn't go away as Dean pulls onto the road again from the bumpy gravel shoulder.

“We get home, gonna dope the dreams right outta ya. I promise.” Dean reaches over, clamping a hand on Sam's shoulder. “Just a few minutes more.”

Sam glances out, recognizes the fields (and the fields, and the fields) of the flat sprawling plains on the way to the Bunker. He lets his eyes slip closed, and he manages a restless doze in those last few minutes, fighting sleep for fear of dreams. 

Dean's hand stays on his shoulder the whole time. All he has to do to wake Sam out of his restless doze is squeeze his shoulder once. “We're home, Sam,” he says, voice soft and gravelly.

Cas is waiting in the entrance to the garage, looking nervous and out of place, but his face warms with a smile when he sees Sam.

As Sam makes his way to his feet, both of them stand beside him, alert and ready to catch him if he falls. As they make their way to the kitchen, the last tendrils of ink-black panic relinquish their squeeze around his heart, and he breathes.

Home, Dean said.

Maybe it is.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tessiejennaheap for the BSGC Secret Santa over on Tumblr. Prompts included _gen, protective!Dean,_ and _brothers hurt/comfort_. These, of course, were right up my alley. Somehow, this turned into an 11x09 tag and I went with it. I can't stop writing tags to this episode. If anyone is interested, there are two 11x09 tags with Castiel and Sully, respectively, as well as a ton of long and short fics and ficlets (not posted on my AO3 account) at [my fic tag](http://semirahrose.tumblr.com/tagged/my-fic) on Tumblr.
> 
> If you got to the end, thanks so much for reading! Any thoughts, crit, or comments would be treasured!


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